


If You Ask Me Why

by mydogwatson



Series: Quartet:  A Composition For 4 Voices [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Turkish Baths, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A building explodes, a proposal is issued, although not the one rehearsed, and Watson think Venice is a romantic city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Ask Me Why

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks, hope you are enjoying this. Just know that in a crummy week, concluding in an even crummier Friday, posting this has been a real bright spot. I especially like this part and hope you do as well. Let me know!

If you ask me to say why  
I loved him, I can say no more  
than because he was he and I  
was I.

-Michel de Montaigne

 

1

 

It seemed to me a day perfectly suited for the baths. Outside 221B the air was damp and chill, the atmosphere entirely grey. Within our rooms, Watson’s mood was fretful and techy. Normally, I am the one who positively radiates discontent, as that is my nature. But in recent times [oh, I should not dissemble: what I mean is since my return from what we now call my Hiatus] it is Watson who sometimes falls into a dark state.

Whenever that occurs my guilt [irrational, of course, as I only did what had to be done] flares and I will attempt to ameliorate the damage. Sometimes that will entail a trip to Simpson’s for a lavish meal. Other times, I will simply play the violin for him, taking care to present all of his favourite compositions.

But on days like this one, I will grab his coat and mine, announcing that I desire a trip to the baths. Even when his mood is ill-inclined towards me, my Watson never refuses the suggestion. And this day was no different.

Thus, in very quick order, we had obtained a growler and were headed for our favourite baths.

Let me state quite plainly that my occasional scribblings on matters of scientific interest are invariably dry and academic in tone and Watson has occasionally commented on that. His own stories tend towards the sensational. I have more than occasionally commented on that. Neither of us would claim [nor do we aspire] to be a poet.

Yet I am convinced that it would take someone of that ilk to properly convey the myriad pleasures to be experienced while spending time in the Turkish baths with John Watson. I have neither the lyrical language nor the sentimental character with which to do the matter justice.

As always, we began in the warm room to bring up perspiration. In those moments, Watson glows and that is as poetic as a man like myself can get. Although some others pass on it, we invariably choose to spend time in the hot room next, because if we are going to do a thing, we will do it entire. That is, in fact, how we choose to live our life together. The cold wash that follows serves as a sharp relief and Watson, very pink, will invariably exclaim “By Jove, that invigorates a man!” His mood is improved already.

After the full body wash, we move into the massage room and stretch out on neighbouring tables to endure the attentions of two muscular types. To be honest, I much prefer the massages Watson occasionally gives me in the privacy of our rooms.

Still, these impersonal ones serve the purpose and soon enough we are reclining on the divans of the cooling room. This, truth be told, is my favourite time of the entire process. Watson is relaxed and soft in a way that life rarely allows a man to be. His pique with me, whatever its cause, has dissipated. Alone in the alcove, we can hold a quiet conversation about the sort of trivialities that I would in most other circumstances disdain.

And if, when we return to our rooms, we are inclined to advise our dear landlady that there should be no interruptions for the rest of the day, that suits me very well. She will only laugh and remark upon my untidy experiments.

Watson will hide his smirk, as we both know very well that some untidiness will indeed occur. Again we shall perspire and Watson will pink up delightfully.

A day that previously promised only greyness and boredom will end with a grand happiness of a type and a depth that I had never expected to experience. That I have no right, really, to claim as my own. But it is mine nonetheless.

And I am certain that, whenever it happens, as I lie on my deathbed those languid afternoons at the baths and all that would follow will be amongst the sweetest of my memories. I can only hope that Watson, my own John, will be there to share them with me.

***

 

2

This was most definitely not how John had expected to be spending this particular Valentine evening. His plans had included a long and lazy dinner at Angelo’s [for the sentimental symbolism] a meal that would include a little too much wine. Afterwards, if the weather cooperated and the forecasts were promising in that respect, he planned a meandering stroll through the park. There was a particular bench he had in mind [more sentimental symbolism] and they would sit there and watch the stars. Sherlock would complain and John would kiss him into silence.

At just the right moment, John Hamish Watson would do the bravest [and hopefully not the stupidest as well] thing he had ever done. He had the perfect night. He had the ring. And he had the words, rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror more than once. All that remained to be seen was if he did indeed have the courage.

But never mind. That was all moot now.

At least he had gotten the bleeding to stop. A belt always made an adequate tourniquet, as long as he remembered to loosen it at the right time. In two hours. He made a note about that in his slightly foggy mind.

God, would he be here that long?

Loosen the tourniquet in two hours or risk losing his leg. Right.

He glared at said leg, which seemed forever to let him down.

Then he leaned back against the rough concrete and wondered where Sherlock [otherwise known as the git he’d been intending to propose to as well as the idiot who’d decided---again!---not to wait for the police] was. They had been at opposite ends of the building when the bomb [not a big one, luckily; just big enough] had exploded. As a result of that, John was now trapped behind a rather intimidating pile of steel and wood and concrete. Stuck in this place with a gash in his thigh that had bled rather a lot.

John refused even to entertain the thought that something horrible had happened to Sherlock. If he actually believed that, he would probably just take the tourniquet off and let nature take its course.

A bit not good that, he realised. But truth was truth and he was far beyond denying that. They had been on such a long journey to get here [well, not _here_ as in a pile of rubble slowly bleeding to death, of course] and he felt as if there were no more time to fritter away carelessly.

Their joint history was frankly absurd. It included denial, repression, a faked death and miraculous return. Dances with disaster. Poisoned pills and bombs and too many bullets. And there was no forgetting the deadly assassin encountered in an empty house right across the road from 221. Especially for John, who realised just before firing the fatal shot that the figure in black about to kill Sherlock was none other than the woman he had once briefly considered marrying. Suddenly all of her determination to stay in his life made horrifying sense. 

So completely absurd, all of it, and he wanted nothing more than for it all to go on forever.

To keep from drifting off, John practised the proposal again. Sherlock was sure to think it was more than a bit silly, probably, but John had decided not to be bothered by that.

He had no idea how much time had passed [surely not two hours?] before he heard noises coming from the other side of the barricade. The sound was too faint at first to figure out what it was, but he assumed it must be rescue. Well, that was good.

He listened carefully and decided that someone was quickly and recklessly throwing rubble aside. Then he heard a voice, far away and soft at first, but then growing stronger and closer. “John! John! Answer me, you bastard.”

Well, that was a tad rude, wasn’t it? Who called the person they claimed to love a bastard?

Bloody son of a bitch.

John was trying very hard to think of an appropriately cutting response to make but then he heard Sherlock again.

“John…please,” he said and his voice was a shattered echo of how he usually sounded. The words were a fragile prayer sent out to the universe by a man who did not believe there was anything out there to hear him, but who had to plead anyway.

“Sherlock,” John said, but it was not loud enough and he tried again, putting every bit of his strength into it. “I’m here!”

There was a pause in the noise and then an even more frantic clearing away began. “John! I’m almost there.”

John let himself relax against the floor. He looked at his leg, but still didn’t think it was time to loosen the tourniquet.

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock said suddenly, sounding much closer.

“What’s wrong?”

“A steel beam. I can’t…on my own, I can’t.”

“Call Lestrade. Or Mycroft.”

“I already did, of course. They’re on the way. But I want you out. Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.”

He did not look at the bloody mess that was his thigh. “I’m fine,” he said.

There was some more noise and then through a very small gap, he could see a hand, long slender fingers reaching through towards him. John made a grunting sound as he managed to drag himself closer to the rubble, hopefully without causing the blood to flow again. He grabbed onto Sherlock’s hand and held on as if it were a lifeline, which, of course, it was. For both of them.

Sherlock made a sound that almost sounded like a sob, but that seemed unlikely. His fingers tightened even more on John’s. “You frightened me,” he said. His voice was back to normal, at least.

“Sorry.”

They sat in silence, just gripping one another, and until they finally heard the distant wail of sirens.

“I want to marry you,” John said. They were not the words he had rehearsed, but that was all right. “I was going to propose tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment and John could imagine the expression that was undoubtedly on his face. Could imagine the rapid blinking of his eyes as he tried to process this. “Do you still want to do that, even though I led you into an explosion?” were the words that finally came from the other side of the rubble pile.

“Yes, of course I do. After all, with Sherlock Holmes, explosions are just part of the deal.” John realised how absurd that sounded and he couldn’t help giggling.

After a moment, Sherlock started to laugh as well and that was how Lestrade and Mycroft and the others found them a few moments later, holding hands and laughing.

 

***

 

3

 

Over the years, I have written much about my friend and companion, Mr Sherlock Holmes and it has been an honour to tell the world about his brilliance and his uncanny ability to see what ordinary men [such as myself, I hasten to add] cannot. Or do not, as he would have it. His deductions amazed me when I first met him and that is no less true today.

While writing my accounts of the adventures we have shared I have often made a point of his rather cold and analytical nature, as well as his aversion to the softer emotions that inhabit most men. Again, including myself. And there was much truth to what I wrote. His mind rules Holmes, not his heart. At the same time, however, I will admit that on occasion I have over-emphasised those traits to make a dramatic point. [Holmes never fails to mock me when I attempt to sound ‘literary’. ] And whilst it is true that, in the main, my little adventure tales [as he always terms them] have never sought to do more than entertain the readers of the Strand, I have also sought to bring awareness of Holmes’ brilliance and courage to as many people as possible.

But there are parts of our life that have by necessity been kept secret and so I have never put pen to paper about them. These very pages could see us disgraced, imprisoned, forever set apart from society. Even knowing this reality, I am unable to resist telling the truth, while still knowing that no eyes but my own and Holmes’ will ever see it, at least not until long after we ourselves and all we know are reduced to dust.

On occasion, Holmes could be lured from London if the case on offer was of sufficient interest. Rarely, he could even be convinced to travel across the Channel to the continent. By the time of the case I am about to relate, he was reluctant to travel without me at his side and I was always eager to accompany him when possible.

He was quite insistent that I must journey with him when a request came from some high-ranking Venetian official. They were about to launch the first Venice Biennale and there was concern about some of the valuable artwork that would be on display to the public. Rumours had reached certain ears that an international cabal of criminals had their sights set on the event. Holmes was bemused and, I think, a bit interested at having an artistic connection to a possible case. As has been mentioned, there are several artists in the French side of his heritage.

I was, of course, interested in the case as well, but there were other reasons I was so eager to make my first visit to the city of canals. Reasons that I would not be able to enumerate in one of my tales aimed at the pages of the Strand, but which will be written down here.

The journey from London to Venice was not without its inconveniences, but the two of us have endured worse and I have no objection to a lecture on the intricacies of the Venetian social structure when it is Holmes delivering it.

The city itself when we arrived there presented its own challenges as well, of course. Traversing the city, especially when it was full of tourists could be difficult. I had heard suggestions that there might be a certain stench, but, in truth, I have been in London alleyways that offended by olfactory nerves much more than anything we encountered in Venice.

On one other point I had not been misled, however.

Venice is a very romantic city. Strolling the winding paths between the buildings, riding one of the gondolas through the moonlit night, sitting in a charming little café enjoying an aperitif while watching the passing traffic; it all delighted me and Holmes as well, although he was more restrained in his enthusiasm. It is often the case that his primary pleasure in such things is watching my delight. I feel that must be one definition of love.

[If someone in a far distant future is reading these words, I hope you are not appalled by use of the word love. Holmes assures me, although I have no idea how he can claim to know, that in time the world will come to accept that two men may love one another, with all that such a relationship entails. I hope this is the case, not least because I would not like anyone to cast aspersions on what is so precious to me. To us. Holmes says that is foolish and why should I care what someone in a future decade---century?---might say about with whom I share my bed..]

Very well. I am foolish about some things.

The committee organising the Biennale had arranged accommodation in one of the finest hotels in the city. Although Holmes and I live a very comfortable life, we do not often indulge in such luxury. The suite had every comfort imaginable and each bedroom contained an enormous feather bed, draped in the softest linens and silks possible. They were like nothing I had ever seen.

My inclination, despite the fact that I am in most ways that matter a very respectable Victorian gentleman, was to tumble with Holmes into one of those beds and not leave it for hours. Days.

As always, he could read the thoughts on my face. I took delight in the faint flush that touched his remarkable cheekbones. But then he shook his head. “The case first, my dear boy,” he said. At least his tone held some regret.

I crossed to where he stood and placed a light kiss on his lips. “Of course,” I said. “I would have it no other way.”

And so we turned our backs on that delightful haven and charged into the work.

The Giardini, site of the Biennale, was a rather astonishing place, consisting of seventeen halls separated by courtyards, all surrounding one central building. We wandered through the exhibition for a long time, while I pondered the art and Holmes pondered the case. For the next two days we did the usual dashing about in pursuit of clues, although there was the novelty of doing some of that dashing in a gondola rather than a hansom.

There was little time for eating, save for what one could grab at the odd moments when Holmes was too lost in thought to move. Sadly, there was no opportunity to explore closely the comforts of the bed that still occupied my imagination.

I know my Holmes very well indeed and so I recognised immediately when his mind gave him the answer to the puzzle of who was intending to steal artwork from the exhibition. At once, he was a flurry of activity within our rooms at the hotel, putting together a haphazard sort of disguise, although I was not quite sure what he was actually supposed to be when he appeared arrayed in a pair of ragged trousers I had no idea had made the journey from London, one of my shirts, and a gaudy cravat.

He posed for just a moment as was his wont and then grabbed me with both hands to kiss my lips with enthusiasm. “Soon, my Watson,” he whispered and the words were thick with promise.

Do you begin to see that Sherlock Holmes is not only intellect and cold reason, but also a man of flesh and blood and desires? And can you now perhaps conceive of how honoured I have always felt to be the object of that passionate nature?

With one more press of his lips to mine, Holmes headed for the door. “Take care,” I called out.

He dismissed my caution with a wave of one hand and was gone.

 

It never pleases me when Holmes goes off on his own, because it keeps me from my primary [self-appointed] occupation of keeping him safe. A fit of restless nerves would serve no purpose, however, so instead I took myself out of the hotel and to the neighbouring café where I could sit at a small al fresco table and indulge in one of their exotic coffee drinks along with a delightfully rich pastry. I enjoyed the sunshine and the pleasant hum of conversations around me while I thumbed through the _Catologo Officiale Illustrato_ of the Biennale.

I have no idea how much time had passed before I looked up to find Holmes, restored to his usual sartorial standard, dropping into the chair opposite me.

“Case all over?” I said lightly. “Miscreants in custody?”

“Did you doubt me?”

“Never.”

He stood again and extended an arm. “Come, Watson, I shall tell you the story of my triumph while we have a stroll.”

We talked and walked arm in arm for a very long time, pausing for a time to indulge in a delicious meal of pasta and wine. The moon was fully up by the time we left the café and walked through the decadent atmosphere that seemed somehow sharpened by the idea that we were inhabiting a drowning city. Romance and conspiracy and death all seemed to envelope us. What could be more perfect for the pair of us?

We walked to the middle of the Ponte dei Sospiri and stopped there, standing very close together. It was late and for the moment we were alone on the bridge. Holmes bent down to my ear. “There is a legend that if lovers kiss in a gondola under this bridge just as the bells of St. Marks ring they will be granted eternal bliss and love.”

“I have already been granted those,” I replied.

He gave a sigh.

“John,” he said after a long moment, “I would have you know that in a different time where it might be possible, I would wed you. Claim you in front of the world entire and be so proud to do so.”

I was quite nearly overcome by his words, but, after all, I had been a soldier, so I gathered myself. “I would do the same,” I said.

He took my hand and squeezed it.

With no more words necessary, we turned and headed back towards our hotel.

The bed cocooned us in its luxury and we moved together in a symphony both familiar and eternally new. Sherlock’s body was a wonder, all leanness and strength, maleness and delicacy of touch, passion and sweetness. He took me that night, whispering such words as I will not repeat even here, and urging my body to heights beyond what I had ever known.

Finally we slept, not bothering even to clean ourselves beyond a quick wipe with a dampened towel. Sherlock wrapped himself around me and closed his eyes. I watched him for a time before joining him in the land of Morpheus.

It had been my intention to write another version of this adventure, one that could grace the pages of the Strand like the others. But now that I see this version in front of me---this truth plainly set down---I do not care to adulterate it with a shroud of falsehoods.

This is what happened. And this is the truth of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

 

***

 

4

 

Mummy was surprised [probably rightfully so] to receive the phone call. After all, her somewhat wayward younger son was notorious in the family [and knowing her penchant for chattering to the neighbours undoubtedly in the village at large] for Not Ringing Mummy. Nevertheless, she seemed pleased at the announcement that John and I were driving out for a visit the next day. I did not choose to tell her the reason for said visit. Mummy likes a bit of intrigue in her life.

If she were curious [she was] about what had prompted such a rare move, she was also patient enough not to ask me about it. Her closing words were a promise to make up a batch of her legendary gingerbread for the occasion.

I set the phone [John’s, as mine had been at the other end of the sofa] down onto the table and leaned back against him again. He immediately resumed his fiddling with my hair, which had been interrupted by the phone call. Good man. Always ready to do his duty. “She is going to bake gingerbread.”

John looked pleased. Gingerbread is not his favourite, as it is mine, but he always enjoys a home-baked treat and also he always seems to think that a bit of pampering of me by someone other than himself was in order. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

I only snorted, as if the concept of nervousness had never even entered my mind. Although perhaps I was just a bit apprehensive about announcing that we were going to be married.

John just kept up the soothing petting of my hair.

 

The next day as I parked the hire car in front of my parents’ house, my thoughts were still a bit…unsettled. Although I didn’t really know why. Deep inside, I knew that my parents would not say anything negative about what we were here to tell them. Not that it would matter if they did.

Mummy greeted us at the front door with a hug for me, followed by one for John. She had always liked John. Or maybe she was just glad that her unlikable son Sherlock finally had a friend. When she asked, John assured her that the gash in his leg was healing nicely.

Because it was a lovely day, the tea and gingerbread were served at the small table outside. Mummy nattered on about all the village gossip, while Daddy kept our cups full and John evinced apparently sincere interest in everything being said. He has that knack and I always assumed that it was simply part of his doctor training. Or maybe it was just John. Probably it was just John.

I was not quite sure why nothing had been said yet about the reason for this visit. John sent me a couple of curious glances, but I ignored them.  
After everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, Daddy invited John to come see his flowers and John, of course, agreed. They walked off side by side, both of them with hands stuck in the pockets of their practical khaki trousers. Apparently, I noted absently, plaid shirts were the order of the day. As I watched, my father pointed something out to John about the roses and John leant over for a closer look. I was struck suddenly by the realisation of the depth of the kindness both men possessed so naturally.

A vision came into my head abruptly: it was an image of John, with his hair gone entirely grey, his shoulders slightly bent, still clad in a somewhat tattered cardigan. Still walking next to me and still looking at me in that way John had, the way that made this lapsed sociopath feel…necessary.

For a moment, I only blinked.

“John looks well,” Mummy said.

“He is well,” I replied.

“And so do you. Better than I have seen you look in a very long time.”

I wondered if she, as I did, thought briefly of the day she had come to visit her errant son, filthy and foul-mouthed, in rehab.

“John has been good for you.”

“And I have been good for him.” My reply was a bit testy.

Mummy gave a soft laugh. “Indeed you have. That is the way a relationship is supposed to work.”

Relationship.

Yes, that was why we were here, wasn’t it?

We were both silent for a few moments, watching as the two men moved around the garden. Then I stood suddenly. “I want to show John my patch.” It was not anything I had planned, but suddenly it seemed very important.

Mummy only nodded.

John watched my approach with a small smile. 

I took his arm. “Something I want to show you,” I said.

“All right,” he replied cheerfully.

Daddy only nodded as I started to tug John away.

It took just a few moments to walk through the small stand of fruit trees to the edge of the meadow. John stayed silent, although I knew that he wanted to ask when we were going to get to the reason for the visit. But John is patient with me.

The apiary looked much as it had done the last time I’d seen it several years earlier, although the abandoned hive boxes were becoming over-run with vines and wild flowers. “This is where I kept my bees,” I said.

John glanced at me, surprised. “Bees?”

“Yes. When I was twelve I set up the apiary and kept it going until I went off to uni. My father kept it up for a bit, but when I…when things went so wrong, I told him to sell them off. I used the money for drugs, of course.”

John didn’t say anything about that. Instead, he only smiled. “Ah, no wonder you like honey so much.”

I realised that my hand was clutching John’s and it made me wonder when such things had become so familiar that I did them without thinking about it. “Bees are fascinating creatures, John. Their social structure would rival that of any human society.”

John was watching me, a particularly soft expression on his face, the kind of expression that had been so rare in my life before him. “I love to watch you be excited about something. You seem to glow.”

I was still a bit flustered by hearing remarks like that meant for me. Bending a little, I rested cheek against John’s hair. “If I do, it’s only a reflection of your light.” And I do not know from where words like that come. That Sherlock Holmes is the one saying them seems impossible.

We stood there for another moment and then I straightened. “In the future, I would like to keep bees again, John.”

“In London?”

“Of course not. I think we should retire to the country one day.”

“When we are too decrepit to race through the streets?”

“Before then. I want time for us.”

“That sounds good to me,” John said. Then he smiled again. “This really is forever, isn’t it?”

“Did you ever think it wasn’t?” I asked. Then my grip tightened on John’s hand again as I began to pull him back towards the garden. “Come on, John. Time for a happy announcement.”

As we approached the table where Mummy and Daddy were still sitting, I saw Mummy watching us. She started to smile. I rather thought that my news was not going to be much of a surprise, after all.

And I realised that I was smiling as well.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow: Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of


End file.
